


Ánima sola

by 35391291



Series: Guadalupana [2]
Category: The Magnificent Seven (2016)
Genre: Gen, Magical Realism, Religious Imagery & Symbolism, Sentient Nature
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-07
Updated: 2017-04-07
Packaged: 2018-10-15 22:03:43
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 601
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10558420
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/35391291/pseuds/35391291
Summary: But one November day, he will talk to them, all those lonely souls neither here nor there. He will listen to the gunfire in his heart, and maybe he will turn it into something else. Maybe he will be brave enough to speak. To say all those words caught in his throat, like birds.How to find that last bit of hope, and how to hold on.





	

_Last night I dreamt I had forgotten my name_  
_'Cause I had sold my soul but awoke just the same_  
_I'm so lonely_  
_I wish I was the moon tonight_

_God blessed me, I'm a free man_  
_With no place free to go_  
_I'm paralyzed and collared-tight_  
_No pills for what I fear_  
_This is crazy_  
_I wish I was the moon tonight_

\- Neko Case: [I wish I was the moon](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=P5uRFXDws_8).

*

There is silence now, but his heart still feels like gunfire. It mirrors the barren wasteland around him. He didn't expect to live, and he doesn't know what to do next. He has nothing to offer, nothing left to give. And there is nothing for him here. He is all alone, caught between the desert and the empty sky.

And the sun will burn and hurt, but the blood in the earth won't dry up any time soon. No tears, no prayers, no sacrifice will ever be enough. There was a hand out there in the darkness, holding his, and he isn't sure when he let go, but he did. And he didn't mean to, he swears he didn't mean to. But it might be too late now. And maybe he should go.

All that's left is the splinters and the thorns. And the pain that leads to hunger, but there is no mystery here. He yells out a voiceless question, but the darkness won't answer him. The burden in his heart is still there, still heavy. It still hurts. And he longs for the place of miracles, but he knows that it is far, far away. It won't return to him everything he has lost. All he gets to keep is a bittersweet dream, held together with whiskey and smoke. It tastes good, but feels like something too close to regret.

He is past gambling. He is too tired to lie or pretend. Besides, what could he possibly offer to this world? But then he remembers all the old stories, and maybe it's enough to be small and lost, and to have nothing to offer. Maybe there is always something there to give. To start with, maybe his name, his empty hands. They were always enough up in the Tepeyac, so they will have to be enough out here too. He refuses to give up. He has nothing else.

And he breathes in and out with the earth. He remembers, his little dark mother from Guadalupe. Her medal, close to his heart. And now, his fallen ones. The Irishman, and all of them. They are his strange, unexpected angels now, also close to his heart. It's sad, and it's not perfect. But it's real. Like fire, like faith.

He had something, only for a moment. And then the story was cut short, and too many things were left unsaid. But one November day, he will talk to them, all those lonely souls neither here nor there. He will listen to the gunfire in his heart, and maybe he will turn it into something else. Maybe he will be brave enough to speak. To say all those words caught in his throat, like birds. One day, soon. But not now, not just yet. They still hurt too much.

He is too far from his home, and it might not work out here. But maybe there is one small prayer left within him. Slowly, the wounds in his heart will close. And he might try to go out and meet it, that last bit of hope, to walk this earth. To carry the burden. To hold on, to go forward somehow.


End file.
